


A Type of Heaven

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mage!Sherlock, Rain, Relationship Discussions, Reunions, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Romance, Templar!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Every reunion is a type of heaven.”  John's search finally comes to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Type of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> _Wow. It's finally here. Six stories and roughly ~34K words in (excluding unrelated stories in this 'verse up to this point), these two are finally together – for real this time. This is the longest I've ever built up to a relationship, and I must say it was a lot of fun, as well as a great learning experience. Hope the wait will have been worth it!_  
>  _Warning: fluff. Unabashed romantic fluff ahead. All right, and a long, serious conversation, because these two have some things to discuss. (Starting with, “Why didn't you tell me you were going to fake your death?” and “How exactly did you do it?” As you'll see, Sherlock's motives for escaping the way he did are, naturally, profoundly different from his canonical ones – though arguably no less important.) But there's lots of fluff, too. Because I think they deserve it. :)_  
>  _Also, hi to those coming here from Tumblr! :) (I can't believe I only just discovered the[AO3-Johnlock feed](http://ao3feed-johnlock.tumblr.com/). Go check it out if you haven't already!)_  
>  _Dedicated to...you! Yes,_ you! _Whether you've been following along up till now or are only just coming on board, welcome! :) We're glad to have you._
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _I don't own these two – especially not in this 'verse. I think they deserve their independence. :)_

“ _Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven.”_

_~ Tryon Edwards_

 

The rain was relentless.

It had been an unusually wet autumn, and tonight was no exception. Thick, dark clouds, made blacker still by night, hid the moon and stars, and the icy water they produced fell in slow, steady streams. Gusts of wind swirled the water in sweeping, slanting bursts. The constant moisture had drenched every surface, turning the normally crunchy carpet of leaves on the ground into a sodden pile of debris and the hard dirt road into soupy mud.

John Watson was walking through the middle of it.

He sighed, jerking his chainmail boot from the mud for what must have been the third time in the past hour alone, and wiped away the few trails of water that had managed to slip beneath his hood, knowing more had escaped his notice and run down to soak the clothing beneath his armor. The chill sank into his bones even through his cloak, already heavy with damp, and he wished he had Mycroft's umbrella. Perhaps the man was at the front of a new trend.

Any sane, sensible person would have already made camp for the night. But John knew he stood a better chance of finding Sherlock after dark. Sherlock would likely be on the move during the day, and if John didn't try to gain some ground at night, he would be forever playing catchup.

_Besides_ , he thought, laughing aloud, _I'm certainly_ not _sane or sensible. I'm in love with a mage named Sherlock Holmes!_

He shook his head, reaching to pull out the phylactery tucked beneath his shirt, leaving his Andrastian pendant in place. His clothes had slowly grown looser over the past few weeks, the result of both a meager food supply and the gradual toning of his muscles from walking sunrise to sunset – and often past that. At least now he was fortunate enough to be walking on a road. Traveling through the forest had soon proven to be slow and inefficient, but he had gone wherever the phylactery had led him – over hills, through trees, across rivers, beside fields.

He held it up, concentrated, and watched it glow. When he moved it in front of him, the glow brightened, a piercing beacon in the darkness. So he pressed on along the North Road, having no clear idea of where he was or where he was going, only that he was headed in the right direction.

Some time later, a light peeked around the corner of the trees lining the road ahead. Then another, and another, till John could just barely make out the glowing windows of tall buildings, peaked roofs, and high stone walls. Definitely not a little village. No, given the direction he had been traveling in, this could only be one place.

Denerim! He smiled. No camping in the woods for him tonight.

A few minutes later, he finally arrived at the city gates. From there, it was only a short walk to the Gnawed Noble Tavern. Any first-time visitor would have stumbled blindly in the dark, but John had known and loved this city since childhood; its layout was burned into his memory. Before going into the tavern, he quickly counted out the money in his pouch – just enough for a night's stay. His first month's pension wouldn't be coming for at least another week; he made a mental note to write and have it sent here for the time being.

On entering, he was quickly overwhelmed by the clatter of plates and flatware, the clinking of glasses, and the low hum of conversation, accented by the rain still pounding on the roof. The tavern was every bit as warm and cheerful as he remembered. It was a fairly busy night, and there were only a few available seats. John walked to an empty table in the middle of the room and dropped into a chair beside it, his pack hitting the floor as he finally let his exhaustion wash over him as thoroughly as the rain. He undid his cloak and draped it over the back of the chair, leaning forward to rest his hands on the table.

Moments later, he heard approaching footsteps and a cheery voice piping beside him.

“Can I get you anything, ser?” The speaker's accent was clearly Orlesian; a new arrival in this country, perhaps?

John waved a hand dismissively, too tired to even face the servant. “Not right now, thank you. I'd just like to rest for a minute first.”

“Long journey, ser? At least let me pour you some water.”

“All right, thank you,” John said wearily, as a cup was placed in front of him before he had even finished answering. A deft hand filled the cup from a pitcher, and John gratefully took a drink.

“What an unusual necklace you've got,” the servant said as the pitcher was pulled away.

John nearly jumped from his skin. He'd completely forgotten to hide the phylactery.

“Uh, thank you,” he said quickly, taking another drink, trying to hide his mortification. “It's on loan from a friend.”

“I've never seen its like. May I look at it?”

John froze, then relaxed as he thought it over. What were the chances this stranger would recognize what the necklace was? “Sure,” he said finally. “But I don't want to take it off.”

“I understand. Why don't you just hold it up for me?”

“All right.” Humoring the stranger, John set down his cup and took the gold-plated circle in his hand. As he raised it, as he had done so often over the past few weeks, his mind unconsciously drifted to the mage to whom it belonged. The mage he'd left a career and home of more than twenty years for, the mage who'd literally walked into his life and proceeded to turn it upside-down just as casually, the mage he...

The stranger's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Is it supposed to do that?”

John snapped out of his trance, his horrified gaze quickly falling to the vial in his hand. Oh no, how was he going to get out of – wait. What in the Maker's name...?

The vial's glow was blinding, the brightest he'd ever seen it, brilliant even in the well-lit tavern. The stranger placed a hand over it and spoke in a familiar baritone, the accent now distinctly Fereldan. “You always were a fine conductor of light, John.”

John couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. His eyes moved up the hand laid over his, to the silver and lyrium-infused ring circling the fourth finger, to the face of the man standing before him. A face from the past he'd last seen burned almost beyond recognition, that he'd wiped his own tears from. A face now looking at him with an expression of curiosity, stoicism, and just the vaguest suggestion of apprehension.

He jumped from his chair, nearly throwing it over in his haste. “Sh-Sherlock?”

There was a moment's silence; even the background noise seemed to vanish to their ears.

“Interesting thing, a pitcher.” Sherlock's blue-eyed gaze flicked to the container he'd set down on the table and back to John. “There is as of yet no spell that will render invisibility. Yet in a tavern, a simple pitcher, combined with commoner's clothing, seems to accomplish that objective just fine.”

“You – how – what – why –” John stuttered, turning and grabbing the table to steady himself. He closed his eyes briefly, fighting hot, stinging tears, utterly unprepared for the wave of emotions he was experiencing. Love, anger, relief, joy, teenage giddiness – all of it swelled and broke over him at once, threatening to drown him. He took deep breaths, gradually calming himself before daring to steal a glance at Sherlock. No, he still couldn't believe it, and yet...there he was. His search was over, just like that, ending in – of all places – a tavern in the capital city.

It was everything and nothing like how he had dreamed it would be.

He felt a hand on his. “Do you need a moment?” Did Sherlock sound – concerned? Nervous?

John finally looked at him, holding his gaze. “No,” he said, his voice equal parts firm and tender. “I'm not losing any more time with you.”

He turned his palm over and laced his fingers with Sherlock's.

For the first time, Sherlock just smiled. John had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Let's get out of here,” the former templar said.

A minute or so later, they made their way out of the Gnawed Noble and into the cobbled street, both cloaked. John clutched his pack in one hand, too tired to sling it on his back. Arms linked, John practically dragged Sherlock a short distance away to the colorful canopy that was the hub of the Market District. The merchants had wisely all packed and locked up their wares for the night. The rain and darkness would likely mask any sight or sound of them – and John figured any guards unlucky enough to be on duty in this weather would be too miserable to pay full attention anyway.

They stopped beneath the center of the canopy. Despite the shelter, they were still soaked from the few minutes they'd spent in the rain. Even in the chill, the sound of the downpour lent a cozy feeling to their sanctuary, a haven in the midst of the storm. John turned to Sherlock then, ignoring the feeling of his boots sinking into the ground, dropping his pack and reaching for Sherlock's hands. The mage did not resist.

“Okay, first of all –” John couldn't believe this was his first question, but there would be time enough for the many, _many_ others “– how long have you been going to the tavern every night, hoping – no, _waiting –_ for me to come there?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Long enough.”

John rolled his eyes, even knowing Sherlock likely couldn't see him do so. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“Enough time to watch the nights lengthen.” Sherlock's tone told John that was the only other answer he'd get.

John's jaw dropped. “By the Black City, it's – late autumn!” Maker, he didn't even know what day it was. “You waited, what – weeks? _Months?_ ”

He felt Sherlock shrug again. “It was only logical.”

John began to smile, then laugh, with amusement rather than derision. “I'm not sure 'logical' is the word you're looking for.” _Obsessive, maybe_ , he thought, but didn't dare to say so aloud. He certainly wasn't one to talk.

Even in the darkness, Sherlock's little smile shone even brighter than his phylactery. “Well, John – you _did_ find me.”

“Of course I did, you idiot!” Unable to hold back any longer, John buried himself in Sherlock's arms, gasping laughter mixing with his words. “Did you ever think I _wouldn't_ turn Thedas upside-down for you? I love you, for Andraste's sake!”

He felt Sherlock's body stiffen against him.

Had he really just said that?

Pulling back, he looked up at Sherlock. The mage was staring back at him, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly, teeth inching out to just bite his lower lip before pulling back. Surprise, hope and even hints of fear were etched in every one of his distinctive features.

Yes. He had just told Sherlock he loved him.

Inwardly, he laughed. He'd had a dozen or more speeches planned, each one thought up, scripted, choreographed, then discarded in quick succession. None of them had been even remotely similar to this final confession – simple, spontaneous, and from the heart.

He realized now he would not have had it any other way.

“Yes...I love you, Sherlock,” John whispered, reaching up to touch his face, tracing every inch of the clear, unblemished skin. “I think I always have, I just never realized it. The first time I saw you in the hall with that blasted skull, I thought I was dreaming. Sometimes I still can't believe you're real. But you are, and I love you, every little thing about you, everything you are and aren't. I should have told you a long time ago.”

Any other person might have said _But I'm a mage_ or _How can you love me?_ For Sherlock, though, John's declaration was assurance, confirmation of months of hypotheses, something that couldn't _not_ be true. And now, in this moment, they weren't a mage and a templar, two people forbidden even basic decency to each other. They were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and they were free, and together at last.

So the only thing Sherlock said, voice husky with emotion, was: “I am yours.”

John's heart swelled to near-bursting as he pulled himself further into Sherlock's embrace. He looked up to see Sherlock leaning down towards him, and closed his eyes as their lips met for the first time.

Their first kiss started out gentle, tentative; a brief brushing of lips, light and soft as soap bubbles, and seemingly just as fragile. A kiss between one man who had not so much as held another person's hand in far too many years, and another man who hadn't wanted to for almost as long.

Within seconds, something woke inside both of them. Months of unfulfilled want and need demanded satisfaction. John moaned slightly as he felt Sherlock's mouth move against his with surprising capability, and Sherlock responded, tilting his head and bringing his gloved hand to tangle in John's soaking hair. Lips parted and tongues swept together. Even through their kiss he felt Sherlock drawing on his power, warmth radiating from his fingertips, whispers of the Fade tingling in his blood. The mage's hands moved down John's back, trailing heat wherever they touched, and even the ex-templar didn't know – or care – where the Fade stopped and the mage began. They pressed together, their heartbeats echoing as one even through their cloaks, sinking into each other's embrace.

When at last they slowly pulled apart, breathless and dazed, trembling from the heat as well as the cold, Sherlock whispered, “Though I would hope you don't love me only for Andraste's sake.”

John was puzzled for a moment, before he realized. “Oh, you!” He laughed again, hardly feeling the ground beneath his feet, and pulled Sherlock into another slow, warm kiss, soon followed by another, and another. They pulled apart from the last with some reluctance, their foreheads touching, the rain that had defied their shelter running in shared rivulets down their faces.

It could have been minutes or hours before they finally broke apart; neither of them could have even guessed. Sherlock moved to take John's hand, squeezing it lightly with anticipation; John did so in kind.

“Come on,” the mage said, “let's go home.”

John cocked his head. “Home?”

A short time later, after weaving through the Market District and several more streets, to the point where John only knew they were on Baker Street thanks to a sign, they came to a small building. Sherlock still hadn't answered the question.

John finally gave up asking as he looked the building up and down. “This is an apartment building.”

“Sharply observed,” Sherlock answered, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

John ignored the bait. “You live here?”

“Arthur Doyle lives here,” Sherlock replied.

John blinked. “Arthur Doyle?” Tired as he still was, the realization didn't hit him for several seconds. “Let me guess – your alias?”

“Well done, John.” Sherlock had opened the front door and led him inside. “You're Ser Conan, by the way. The landlady knows to expect you. You can meet her tomorrow. Her name is Mrs. Hudson.”

“Good to know.” John quickly wracked his brain; he didn't recall a Ser Conan ever serving in the Templar Order in recent memory. Good. They stopped in front of a door with “221B” painted on it in fading black. While Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket, John tested his new name: “Ser Conan, pleased to meet you.” It felt strangely familiar on his tongue, like trying a flavor that hadn't been tasted since childhood.

Sherlock finished turning the key and opened the door. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the pitch-black room. After a few moments, John sensed the casting of magic, saw orange light curve around the door, and heard “Come in.”

He obliged, walking into a spacious room lit and heated comfortably by a now-blazing fireplace. It was longer than it was wide, just large enough to accommodate several pieces of furniture including a bookcase filled to the brim (containing, among other things, that skull that had caught John's eye so long ago), a table and two chairs, a desk, and a couch. The floor had no carpet and the walls had no furnishings apart from a now-closed and shuttered window near the main door, and two shelves containing an array of what looked like cooking implements and other knick-knacks. Off to the right was a closed door that John supposed led to a bedroom.

“Well?” Sherlock, standing by the fire, seemed to be asking for approval.

John nodded and smiled, pleased to not feel a single draft or drip; the apartment was modest but comfortable, exactly what he liked. “This is nice. How did you afford it?”

“There are many small jobs for an apostate, as Surana no doubt learned,” Sherlock replied. “And those who have the most money to spend are always the most careless about guarding it.”

He motioned to John's left, who turned to see a set of hooks by the door from which hung Sherlock's cloak and a grey velvet cowl. John hung up his cloak and set down his pack, unsure what to do next.

“I will return shortly,” Sherlock announced. “I have an experiment to check on.” So saying, he slipped into the adjoining room and closed the door.

John was momentarily offended; then, as he heard the quiet splashes on the floor from the streams of water dripping from his armor, he realized what Sherlock was trying to do. Quickly, he removed his armor and changed into dry clothes from his pack, thankful – once again – for Sherlock's insight. They'd just had their first kiss a few minutes ago; they weren't quite ready for even _that_ minor stage of intimacy. Thus refreshed, he collapsed onto the couch with a contented sigh, listening to the crackling fire and quiet patter of the rain.

Sherlock returned, now changed into his familiar black robes, and sat on the couch beside John.

“How's the experiment?” John asked casually.

“Proceeding as expected,” Sherlock replied. “Tea?”

“Please.”

The kettle wasn't even boiling, but with a dash of magic, the water was ready in moments. As Sherlock poured their cups, the herbal aroma that filled the room was soothing and homey.

John took a sip, savored the taste washing over his tongue. “Everyone ought to have a mage in their home. Hot tea on demand.”

“Yes, that would be a step up from being employed as mere candle lighters.”

“Still not over that, are you?”

“With _that_ as the alternative, the Circle is almost preferable.”

“Says the apostate.”

“Note the 'almost'.”

John smiled behind his cup. Oh, he had missed this. And judging by the decidedly non-magical glow radiating from Sherlock, so had he.

As he looked around at Sherlock's scant belongings, his eyes fell on a staff leaning against the opposite wall. The silverite rod and its etchings gleamed even in the low light. “Is that from the Tower?”

“It is.” Sherlock looked inordinately pleased with himself; John managed to resist an eyeroll.

Setting down his cup, he walked over. On closer inspection, he stared in awe, reaching out to trace the lightly shimmering engravings. “Sherlock, it's beautiful. Are those stars?”

“It's a map of the entire night sky. This stave is named Heaven's Wrath,” Sherlock said with a note of pride.

“All the best weapons have names,” John said, thinking fondly of Oathkeeper. The engraved stars seemed to twinkle, just like their heavenly counterparts. “You'll have a bit of trouble convincing people it's only a walking stick, though,” he teased.

Sherlock scoffed. “Walking stick, John? Surely you can come up with an excuse that's far less... _pedestrian_.”

“Oh, _haha_.” John rolled his eyes as he returned to his seat and picked up his tea. “How long did it take you to come up with that one? About as long as it took you to invent a story for your stave?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Really, now? Well, what have you been telling all those curious bystanders, then? What have you been telling them that Heaven's Wrath actually is?”

There was a pretended innocence in the mage's answering shrug. “A divining rod.”

“A – _divining rod?_ ” John sat back, flabbergasted. “You are not telling me that you've been traipsing around Ferelden for the past year with a staff called _Heaven's Wrath_ on your back and trying to pass it off as a _divining rod_.”

Sherlock shrugged again, idly twirling a stray curl around his finger, but the mischievous glint in his eye was unmistakable. John could only snicker a little, taking another swallow of tea before going on. “Well, if that's the story you've come up with for your staff, I can't _wait_ to hear your rationale behind faking your death and not telling me for almost a year.”

“You can't, can you?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea. “Why wait, then?”

John resisted the urge to shake his head. He should have long since grown accustomed to having to ask most of the questions when conversing with a Holmes; perhaps he was just out of practice. He set his tea on the floor, turned to Sherlock, and folded his hands – mirroring, not mocking, Sherlock's familiar pose.

“Okay, well, my next question...how exactly did you fake your death?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That is your next question? As to how, not why?”

“Well, _why_ is going to come after that. But I've a feeling the _how_ will take much less time to start with.”

“Very well.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together, flashing a grin at John before moving to the other side of the apartment. He looked over the small bookshelf and pulled out a heavy leather-bound book, setting it on the desk beside the shelf. From the desk itself, he opened a drawer and took out three small jars containing three different colored substances – one clear, one red, one black – a wooden bowl, a flask, a rag, a small, flat wooden stick, and a couple of stiff, cheap-looking paintbrushes with short, ragged bristles. He crossed the room and handed the book to John, who took it and saw the title written in gold lettering across the front: _The Complete Compendium of Poisons and Antidotes_. A small bookmark was sticking out from the top.

“Turn to the marked page,” Sherlock instructed. John did.

His eyes fell to the top of the page in question, headed by an entry titled “Concentrated Magebane.” Next to a picture of a flask containing a violently-colored bluish-pink fluid was the following: _Most experienced spellcasters feel their stomachs drop whenever they see something whose color reminds them of this fierce substance._ John read on, not fully grasping the more technical descriptions, but able to understand the basics; the book detailed how the poison was notorious for being able to drain up to a quarter of a caster's mana with just one dose depending on efficacy, to say nothing of its often-virulent physical effects. The symptoms typically did not manifest until at least several hours after exposure, and included headaches, nausea, vomiting, and, in extreme cases, paralysis.

Paralysis...John turned the page, fascinated. The book went on to describe how death by Concentrated Magebane was often slow and painful; most victims died within three days of poisoning at most – usually much sooner – depending on the dosage. There was an antidote, but it needed to be prepared according to toxicity and administered as soon as possible by an expert healer who could treat all the effects simultaneously. As if on cue, Sherlock finally spoke up, having finished arranging the rest of his materials on the table.

“If you're done enriching yourself, John, you'll notice what is written about doses that are not fully lethal.”

“I'm getting there,” John said, waving his hand dismissively before going back to reading. As he continued, he soon found the section Sherlock was talking about. He read on, his incredulity growing with each word: _At near-lethal doses, the victim appears to have died long before they have actually expired, while in fact they are still conscious; their pulse and breathing are only detectable by very careful examination, and, in the case of a mage, their mana pool is all but drained completely. They can remain in this state for several days; however, if treated within 48-72 hours of ingestion, they may be expected to make a full recovery with no lingering side effects..._

John finally looked up, stunned. “Poison? You poisoned yourself?”

Sherlock nodded; the slight grin spreading across his face made John think of the time Mr. Wiggums had managed to eat six laboratory mice in one sitting – and only been caught halfway through the last one.

John stared at him for a full minute, then began to laugh. Just light giggling at first, then chuckling, then full rolling laughter. “That's all? Just poison? You had me worried for a while there!”

Sherlock shrugged, an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye. “If you like, I can try something a bit more convincingly lethal next time. Diving off the Tower, for example.”

“There's not going to be a 'next time' if I have anything to say about it,” John shot back lightly, his laughter finally subsiding. “So, let me guess the identity of the expert healer who brought you back.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “It's not exactly 'guessing' if you already know.”

“Who else?” John snapped the book shut and set it aside. “Molly's been training as a spirit healer for more than a decade. People have been saying one day she'll be as good as Wynne was. Poisons and antidotes are a standard part of any healer's repertoire. Who else did you know – and trust – enough to allow to poison and then revive you?”

The question went unanswered, as it was intended to be; Sherlock merely gave a small nod of acknowledgment. John leaned forward, folding his hands. “What about the burns, then? Don't tell me you just walked into a conveniently-aimed Fireball and had Molly heal those, too?”

Sherlock scoffed. “John, please. That is an amateur's method – far too sloppy and inelegant. I chose something I had much more control over.”

He indicated the jars on the table in front of him; John moved closer for a better view. Sherlock picked up the jar with the clear substance and removed the lid. He tipped it to show John. “To begin with: gelatin. And water.” He poured some of the gelatin into the bowl and tossed the jar to John, who caught it in one hand and studied the thick, viscous substance.

“What is this stuff made from?” John asked. He'd seen it occasionally at fancier dinners accompanying meat courses, but had never actually prepared it himself. Sherlock looked up from pouring water from the flask into the bowl and shook his head. John nodded. “Right, I probably don't want to know.”

Sherlock moved on, mixing the gelatin and water with the wooden stick, heating it with just a pinprick of power, then slathering a generous portion of the mixture on the back of his left hand. While it dried, his free hand tossed the other two jars to John, who quickly caught one in each hand and opened them. “Beeswax, mixed with red dye. Charcoal powder.”

John examined them, puzzled. “Sherlock, why do you still have all this stuff?” When Sherlock didn't answer immediately, John thought for a few moments before it dawned on him. “Hold on. Did you save all your supplies just so someday you could show off to me?”

The look on Sherlock's face told him all he needed to know. John handed the jars back with an affectionate eyeroll. “Go on, then. Don't let me interrupt.”

Sherlock barreled onward, dipping the smaller paintbrush into the beeswax and carefully dabbing the red not-quite liquid on the now-dry gelatin. His strokes were short and quick, gradually building up the color, leaving more red in some places and less in others. John stared, fascinated. Once Sherlock was satisfied with the red, he put it aside and reached for the larger brush, swirled it in the charcoal, then lightly brushed the powder around the edges of the “burn.” The “burn” slowly took on a dry, powdery look. After he was done with the charcoal, he reached for the stick again and carefully applied a bit more gelatin to the redder areas, giving them a fluid appearance. With that finished, he moved glowing fingers over the makeup, helping the last of the gelatin to dry with a bit of heat.

His work finally finished, Sherlock held up his left hand for John to see. The ex-templar let out a low whistle; the made-up burn looked real even on close examination. “Wow. Amazing. All that from just four simple ingredients.”

“I know.” Sherlock's pride was unmistakable now. “As well, knowledge of how a fresh burn would appear. The importance of that cannot be overstated. It had to convince not only you, but any healers who might stumble upon me.”

John tilted his head. “Molly again?”

“Yes. Burn treatment is part of basic healer training. She has had sufficient experience with treating all manner of burns to know how small to severe ones would look. All I had to do was prepare the makeup and show her how to apply it. The rest was...artistry, if you will.”

Sherlock's tone was somehow less disdainful than John would have expected with that last remark.

“But that is in the past.” He moistened the rag with the flask and cleaned off his hand, the “burn” disappearing more quickly than it had been made. This accomplished, he returned to the couch, and John followed him. Neither of them moved to pick up their tea. “And now...” murmured Sherlock, reaching for John instead.

John did not resist, was drawn to Sherlock as irresistibly as a raindrop to the earth, practically falling into Sherlock's arms as their lips found each other. They kissed, lightly at first, then with growing, hungering intensity. Sherlock tasted of tea, of lyrium, and even the slightly earthy tang of elfroot. As the mage's mouth pressed against John's with desire to match his own and his hands caressed John's back, the former templar felt liquid heat flowing through his veins. He sucked Sherlock's lower lip into his mouth, ran his tongue over it, and his ardor surged when he heard Sherlock's moan of pleasure. His own hands found their way to Sherlock's neck, fingertips stroking along the soft skin and into the mess of dark curls at the nape. As their pleasure increased, their movements became more instinctual, more primal. Leaning back, John pulled Sherlock with him, and let out a little groan of protest when Sherlock took his lips away, only to gasp when Sherlock pressed a light kiss to his cheek, then began trailing more kisses down to his neck.

And in that brief shock of feeling cool air where warm lips had been, John's mind cleared. Finally granted a moment of clarity, his thoughts organized. And he realized there was still one important issue they needed to discuss.

“Sh-Sherlock?” John finally spoke up, barely able to think over Sherlock's careful ministrations to his neck.

“Mm?”

“Why did you let me think you were dead?”

It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on them. Sherlock stopped, then slowly withdrew from John's arms, looking more than a little perturbed as he pulled back to look at John.

John sat up, gave him a small, knowing smile. “Yeah, I know. But before we go any further, we need to talk about it. I want to enjoy being with you, and there are things I need to know before I can fully do that.”

“Very well.” Sherlock seemed to understand; John wondered if that was the first time anyone had said they _wanted_ to be with him – and the feeling was mutual. He settled comfortably onto his end of the couch, folded his hands as John picked up his teacup. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, to begin with, clearly you didn't intend to let me think you were dead forever.” John fingered the phylactery around his neck momentarily before continuing. “I just don't understand why you let me think so for so long, or even had to do it in the first place.”

“All right.” Sherlock nodded. Before John could demand to know what he meant by that, Sherlock asked, “When were you given my phylactery?”

“Molly gave it to me the day of the memorial dedication.”

“Hmm. Sooner than I would have expected.”

“ _Expected?_ ” John nearly dropped his teacup. He quickly set it down and turned to Sherlock, furious. “What are you saying? How long did you expect me to believe you dead? The dedication was _six months_ after the Blight ended. The massacre had happened about six months prior. Do the math!”

Sherlock began to exaggeratedly count on his fingers. John sighed. “I didn't mean literally, and you know it.”

Sherlock stopped counting and steepled his hands, even as he seemed to ignore the comment. He looked squarely at John. “Do you blame Molly for the delay?” To John's surprise, the mage's tone was somewhere between accusatory and inquiring.

John shook his head. “Of course not. It wasn't her fault. With the extra security, particularly around the mages, she didn't have a chance to slip it to me until everything was more or less back to normal.”

“I never believed it was Molly's fault.” As Sherlock frowned, John thought that was possibly the most complimentary thing he had ever said about her.

John smiled a little. “She says hello, by the way.”

Sherlock returned the smile with a perfunctory one of his own. “And I say hello to her as well.”

John waved a hand. “I'll let her know. But this isn't about her. So you admit it was all you, then? All the pain I went through, all the nightmares I had, all the grieving I did...” His anger was growing now. “You let me go through _all that_ for almost a year when you could have just told me what you had planned, even if you didn't want my help?”

Sherlock tipped his head. “That's the short version.”

John nearly exploded. “You – you –” He took a deep breath, then went on, “Even if Molly had been able to get your phylactery to me sooner, you specifically instructed her _not_ to do so. Do you have _any_ idea what I went through when I thought you'd died?”

“Either way, I suspect I'm about to find out,” Sherlock said casually.

John exhaled, pressed a palm to his forehead and then continued, “Look, I know you're above simple emotions and all that. All the things that you think demonstrate your biggest weakness – that you're human. Which you're totally wrong about, but we'll talk about that later. But for me – it wasn't just about emotion. It was about something much more basic, something I never thought I'd have to worry about till then.”

Sherlock looked at him, seemingly genuinely puzzled. John steadied himself, then began, “See, one night I dreamt that I was on guard duty as usual...” Quickly, he told Sherlock about his encounter with the desire demon. When he'd finished, Sherlock looked thoughtful, then – for just an instant – contrite, then grave.

“You resisted, though,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, that time.” John's gaze fell to the floor for a moment. “Luckily, it never happened again. But mostly because I was too afraid to sleep after that.”

There was silence for several long minutes.

“It was never my intention to put you through something like that, John,” Sherlock said finally.

John sighed. “I know, and I'm not really angry with you for that; you didn't sic that demon on me or anything. And...in some ways I'm glad it happened, because I think I understand you, and other mages, a little bit better now.” He had looked away, and didn't see the flash of surprise in Sherlock's face, which disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself. “But that didn't make missing you any easier. It just drove home how much I cared for you – and still do – and what I might have been willing to do to get you back. I just want to know how even you couldn't seem to see that, and if you did, why you still left me in the dark.”

Another long pause followed.

“John,” Sherlock said slowly, “I escaped the way I did for precisely that reason.”

John frowned. “Because you _did_ know – or because you couldn't let me in, you mean?”

“Both.”

“I don't understand.”

“I did not expect you would.” Sherlock reached for his own long-neglected teacup, reheated its contents with a quick touch, and took a sip. “I will endeavor to help you to.”

John nodded. “All right. I'm listening.”

“First, though, I need you to clarify something for me.”

John let out another sigh. “Fine. I suppose with what you're about to tell me, it'll all come out even.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “When did you leave the Tower yourself?”

John thought for a moment, counted on his fingers. “About – three, three-and-a-half weeks ago, I guess.”

“As soon as you received my phylactery?”

“Well, no,” John admitted. He glared for a moment. “But it wasn't the same thing. As soon as I knew you didn't – you weren't –” John paused, unable to fully spit the word out “– dead, it was all I could do not to run out of there and start looking for you. But I couldn't. It wasn't my vows – I would have broken them if it was my only chance – but my deserting would have put you in even more danger. I didn't know what to do, until I got help from the last place I expected.”

Sherlock barely hesitated before replying. “Mycroft.”

John nodded.

“He came to see you shortly after you received my phylactery,” Sherlock went on, “had you honorably discharged, and told you of our history.”

“Yes, yes, and yes. As far as your consistently refusing his offers to help until your Harrowing, yeah, he did.”

“So you know that much about my plan.”

“I suppose so.” John had no idea how _not_ making a plan could be part of a plan, but he decided to just listen and find out.

“Very well. We will not go over that again, then. So we will start from when I received my phylactery from Mycroft. Why didn't I simply destroy it, you wonder? Because once I learned I would have a chance at obtaining it for myself, I calculated there were thirteen possibilities once I had it in my hand. I spent the next fifteen years working all of them out.”

John shook his head. “I still can't believe you waited fifteen years for even _one_ of them to pan out.”

“Simple math says long odds are better than none,” Sherlock replied.

John couldn't argue with that. Sherlock continued, “Over the first fourteen years, twelve of the possibilities proved unfeasible for various reasons. It was not until the fifteenth year that the thirteenth possibility began to show true promise, between the stirrings of the Blight, Surana's conscription, and the growing madness of Uldred.”

“Wait, wait.” John's eyes widened in horror. “Did you _know_ what Uldred was planning?”

To John's relief, Sherlock quickly shook his head. “No, no. When he returned from Ostagar, I suspected he had _something_ planned, but I was not sure of its nature, or when it would happen, nor did I expect it so soon. He forced me to tip my hand, accelerate my own plan's development. Up till then I was simply waiting for an opportunity to present itself. At first, when we met, I thought it would involve you.”

“Hold on.” John held up a hand. “I'm sorry, but I need to know – Sherlock, did you plan to meet me?”

“No. Before our first meeting I was no more familiar with you than I was with Surana.” Though his answer was immediate, there was still a note of uncertainty in his voice, as if even he still could not believe the astronomical odds that had been defied to even bring them together in the first place.

“All right, then. But even so, do you mean – you were going to use me?” John asked, trying to keep the pain from his voice. He wasn't hurt, not really, but couldn't help feeling a slight sting at the thought that Sherlock might have had an ulterior motive in cultivating their friendship.

Sherlock looked away for a moment. “I cannot say the thought did not occur to me. But before long I realized that could not be an option. You couldn't be involved in my escape in any way, even if you had begged me to allow you to help.”

“ _What?_ Why? Sherlock, you know you can trust me.”

“That was never an issue.” _Obviously_ went unspoken, to Sherlock's credit; he was briefly silent before continuing. “Let me put it to you this way: in his many, many attempts, the longest that Anders lasted was one month. And Rylock was not even the most zealous templar in the Circle.” He was silent for a moment, seeming to review previously gathered information. “Though perhaps she was when it came to Anders, for her own reasons. But that is unimportant.”

“Hang on.” Despite the more pressing issues, John could not simply let that piece of information pass by. “Rylock and Anders? Really?”

Sherlock shrugged. “There were signs. Most of which they were completely unaware of.”

“Huh. Well, then.” Sherlock was right; that was not what they needed to discuss. John might review it later. “So. I understand why you took that opportunity to escape. It was perfect, really. Look at Anders; all he did was run, and they didn't even start looking for him until a rumored sighting in Amaranthine somehow made its way to the Tower earlier this year. But what I don't understand is why you couldn't have better informed me. I could have helped you.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he'd just said he wondered where the sun went at night. “If I had told you my plan, I would have endangered you for aiding and abetting an apostate.”

John laughed. “As if that's not what I'm doing now? As if that's not what you hoped I would do?”

Sherlock smiled a little. “Yes...but now it's of your own choosing. Completely.”

John frowned, trying to understand. “And my begging you to let me help wouldn't have been...?”

“If I had told you what I was planning, even if I hadn't asked for your help, you would likely have felt obligated to assist me, even if I refused. And after I was gone, you would have felt bound to follow me. That was not an option. I didn't want you to help me out of duty. If you wanted to find me – without my suggesting or asking you do so – the decision should be yours. Not mine. Even Mycroft understood that.”

John was quiet for a few moments, processing what he had heard. “Is that what this was really about? Choice?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Neither of us had choices in that prison, John. Not as we do on the outside. I escaped, in part, so I could have my own. How could I deny the same to you?”

John remained silent. He had never considered that aspect before. The Holmeses were showing him more and more just how much he had taken for granted for so long; the revelations were equally saddening and cathartic.

“I think I understand now, Sherlock,” he said finally. “And –” he did not miss the flash of hope in Sherlock's eyes “– I forgive you. It's all right.”

Sherlock said nothing, but his look of gratitude was answer enough. A few minutes went by before John began to wonder about something else.

“I have another question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Was having a choice the reason you refused all those times Mycroft offered to help get you out?”

“Yes, in part. Mycroft wanted to help only out of obligation. Had he the choice, he might have preferred to leave me in there. I am sure he has told you how he and our mother notified the templars.”

_I don't know if you're right about that_ , John thought, but held his tongue. Now wasn't the time.

“But more so, any escape he could have assisted with would have been conditional – even if the only condition was that I remain permanently in his debt. _That_ I refused to do.”

“And his getting your phylactery and giving it to you didn't put you in debt to him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “A fairly minor and inconsequential one compared to a life debt. That I could live with. The fact remains he did not set the terms of my escape – _I_ did. He knows this, and it undoubtedly annoys him.” An unmistakable note of glee crept into Sherlock's voice. “Though probably not as much as he is annoyed by the fact that he was in debt to _you_. And that by his actions, you were in debt to him as well.”

John thought for a moment. “So then, in his eyes, our debts...cancel each other out?”

“Precisely!” Sherlock grinned, and John couldn't help but follow suit. It was quite neat, actually.

“So we really are free, then?”

“For the most part. And there is a bonus.”

“Which would be?”

“If the authorities learn I am not, in fact, dead, nothing about my escape can be traced back to you.”

John frowned. “What about Molly, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Molly is capable of taking care of herself.”

Well, John thought as he reached for his tea, never mind what Sherlock had said earlier – _that_ was probably the nicest thing he had ever had to say about her. He only wished she could have joined in their freedom as well. Someday, perhaps.

The only sounds that filled the room for the next few minutes were sips of tea, crackling flames, and the slow, steady beat of rain.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. He said slowly, “My desire for freedom was not the only reason I left.”

“What?” John looked at him in surprise. “What else made you leave?”

A flicker of pain lanced through Sherlock's eyes, like a distant lightning bolt in a clear sky. “You.”

John nearly fell back in shock. “Me?” At Sherlock's nod, he choked out, “What – what did I do to make you leave?”

“It wasn't like that, John.” Sherlock shook his head. “Not at all. There was nothing you could have done differently – nothing I would have wanted you to do differently.”

“I don't –”

“John, let me finish.”

“Sorry.”

“It's all right.” And it truly was. “It began the night I told you about my Harrowing. What you said to me made me realize something. You could see what I could not. You knew all along, after a mere three months' acquaintance, something I had never fully believed since that test – that I had the strength to resist possession.”

“That's not so remarkable, though,” John protested, even as he felt his defenses melting away. “Anyone who bothered to talk to you – to _listen_ to you – for just a minute could see that. Plenty of people could have told you that.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “ _You_ told me first.”

John fought to keep his jaw from dropping as he took in Sherlock's words and look. “Oh, Sherlock...” He'd begun to understand just how much he meant to the mage from the moment that phylactery had dropped into his hand. Until now, though...he had never truly realized just how deeply felt their – friendship? Love? Whatever was between them now, and perhaps had been all along – relationship had been, by a man who had never given much indication of any feeling at all.

“The way I began to feel about you after that – and still do – was like nothing else I've ever experienced.”

“Did you know that night?”

“No, not then. I do not...” Sherlock's gaze flicked away from John's briefly. “I cannot say precisely when I knew.”

John merely nodded, knowing how it galled Sherlock to admit there was something he didn't know.

“It was fine, at first. Wonderful, in fact.” Sherlock's smile left John's knees weak. “But after a while, just being in your presence began to hurt, mostly because I didn't know if you could even feel the same way. And yet the thought of _not_ seeing you caused me more pain, when it should have done the opposite. I didn't know what to think, what to do. My feelings weren't uncertain; what I would do about them was.”

“And I'm sure the fact that our having a romantic relationship – let alone a friendship – would likely have gotten us both killed if we were lucky, also put a damper on things,” John said wryly.

Sherlock chuckled. “That was certainly a factor. At any rate, when the opportunity for escape came up, I thought possibly never seeing you again would make my feelings more bearable. It wasn't the main reason for my decision, but it was considered.”

John nodded, beginning to understand. Sherlock's words hurt, but the pain was tempered somewhat by the rest of his explanation. He hadn't wanted to run away from John so much as his own confusion.

“So I ran. After a while, everything I had believed about freedom was proved correct. Except for one thing – my ability to bear being away from you.”

John smiled a little, knowing that statement was as close to an admission of being wrong as he could expect from Sherlock.

“And therein lies another factor in instructing Molly not to inform you I was alive until a sufficient period of time had passed.” Sherlock raised a hand when John opened his mouth to speak; John closed it and nodded. “By then I felt you would have had time to adjust to my 'death', and decide for yourself if you could grow accustomed to...being without my presence.”

John snorted. “You mean, living without you?”

“That's what I said.”

“Right. Anyway, continue.”

“Truthfully, when I decided to give you my phylactery, it was without expectation that you would come for me. And though I had made that choice long before my plan was actually carried out...I soon realized your coming was more and more likely. That much was made clear when you came to see me that last time.”

John thought back, swallowed hard as he remembered speaking to Sherlock for what he thought had been the last time. “Even though you were barely conscious...you heard everything?”

“Yes. Not completely clearly, but enough to understand. And, as to your rites –” he smiled at John “– I did not mind.”

John felt his heart overtake his body and tears threaten to break free. It was all he could do not to pull Sherlock into his arms and kiss him again. If he did, though, they might not stop for a while, and there was still much to talk about.

“Good. Well, go on.”

“You might also like to know something you were actually right about.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“I did deserve my freedom. And I have enjoyed it.”

John was puzzled. “What do you – oh!” He burst out laughing as the memory of his then-final words to Sherlock came back. “Oh, Sherlock, you deserve everything the world can give you.”

“That has never been in doubt. However, I would not say the reverse is true.”

_Of course not_ , John thought, ignoring Sherlock's smirk. The mage soon continued.

“At any rate, once the possibility seemed more likely, I began to wonder what would happen if you did come for me. If I'd continue feeling as conflicted and...and unsure of myself as I did in the Tower, knowing what to do in every situation but this one.

“And after some time, I realized something else. If you were with me, you would help me figure it out, just like you always have, even if you were no wiser than I. Whatever it took, your being there would make figuring it out worthwhile. As long as we could find a way to always be together...then nothing else would matter.”

John set his tea down, slowly, as his other hand unconsciously rose to cover his mouth. “Sherlock, what – what are you saying?”

Sherlock put down his own tea, inched closer to John, and reached for John's hands, stroking his long, graceful forefinger along John's callused knuckles. “I'm saying I want to be with you always, John.”

John gasped – not from shock, but from his heart skipping a beat – and was unable to speak for several moments.

“Is that what you want, too?” Sherlock prodded, uncharacteristically gentle. “For us to always be together?”

John swallowed hard, realizing the commitment Sherlock was asking of him. “Sherlock, are – are you proposing to me?”

Sherlock looked at him gravely. “Only if you would like to think of it as such.”

The moment's silence that followed seemed to span an eternity.

In that moment, John's thoughts hurtled through his mind, keeping pace with his heartbeat. He had not expected a mutual profession of love. He'd known that when he made his confession, he might not hear the words back – and might never hear them. And that was okay. He didn't need to hear Sherlock express his feelings to know he had them; Sherlock's actions had spoken louder than words ever could. All that truly mattered was that what was between them was mutual, however Sherlock chose to define it for himself. All he knew was that for him, this was love. Sherlock would have to reach that conclusion in his own time, if he ever did.

Still, he had not expected to hear _this_ , either.

But when that moment passed, as he blinked away tears, as his mind gave way to his heart, John knew exactly what to say.

He twined his fingers through Sherlock's, reveling in the tingle of magic that ran down his spine, leaned forward and whispered: “As long as you'll have me... _I_ am _yours_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

The smile that lit up Sherlock's face outshone the fireplace and phylactery combined, and John had never been prouder to be a conductor of light.

They came together like two raindrops running down a windowpane. John heard Sherlock say one last thing just before burying his face in John's neck:

“I'd be lost without my templar.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed. :)_  
>  _And now, warning for incoming wall of text, and some hopefully mildly interesting research notes. I learned how to make fake homemade burns from these[great](http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-create-a-realistic-burn-using-makeup/?ALLSTEPS) [blogs](http://radmegan.blogspot.com/2012/10/easy-home-recipes-fake-burns-bruises.html); at their most basic, you need little more than lipstick, charcoal or mascara, and unflavored gelatin. Impressive, no? And yes, gelatin did exist in medieval times, though not in convenient packet form. You wouldn't believe how much digging I had to do to verify that – and trust me, you _ don't _want to know what animal parts it was made from. :P Lipstick did as well, in the form of – you guessed it – beeswax mixed with red plant dye._  
>  _Molly's concoction has a canon name, but non-canon applications.[Concentrated Magebane](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Concentrated_Magebane) is a fourth-tier poison, but has a bare minimum of description and effect (the flavor text – quoted above – leaves _ everything _to the imagination), so there was nothing to suggest it couldn't be used for Sherlock's purposes, or that Molly couldn't tweak it accordingly. :) Its function was inspired by tetrodotoxin, an extremely potent poison found in several species of fish that, at best, will leave victims comatose for several days, and – unlike in this 'verse – currently has no known antidote. (You may know of a murder mystery where it's used to either fake or prolong a death; I can think of several.) Read more about it[here](http://toxnet.nlm.nih.gov/cgi-bin/sis/search/r?dbs+hsdb:@term+@na+@rel+Tetrodotoxin) if you like. Normally I'm not too concerned with historical accuracy in _ Dragon Age _fic (and I'm hardly a medieval historian, as should be evident), but I've read some otherwise decent stories with major/minor anachronisms that I found distracting, and non-canon items are often a personal irritant (there's already so much great_ canon _fodder! *rimshot*), so I wanted to clarify where I'm getting this stuff from. (And maybe some of you actually find it interesting – who knows?) Not that I have a problem with non-canon compliance (as the twenty-nine mods I have installed in my game should make evident :P), but when it comes to fic, I've always preferred to use what's already there before trying something new, if possible._  
>  _Also – hey, I managed to get in a reference to both the great ACD and to the animated series_ Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century _(yes, I enjoyed it, sue me :P). (For those not sure how this is a double reference: in some episodes of the animated series, Sherlock introduces himself as Arthur Doyle and android!Watson as Conan. So I can't take credit for coming up with their aliases. And this would be...referencing a reference with a reference, I guess? It's references all the way down.)_  
>  _So, it seems all is well – for now. But we're far from done with these two. Oh, we're not done by a long shot. Keep in mind there are still things John doesn't know about Sherlock. And I can promise you it will not be all sunshine and rainbows from here on out. This_ is _Thedas, after all. You take your happiness where you can._  
>  _Still, though, this is where we're leaving them till then. :) Thank you to[Rainy Cafe](http://rainycafe.com/) and [RainyMood](http://rainymood.com/) for some nice ambiance. A big thank-you to my dear, dear Stef for helping me work out the basics of their reunion – their meeting-place was originally quite different and I simply couldn't make any headway. One talk with her later, I came up with what you see here – not only did it parallel their canon reunion much more closely and give them 221B much sooner than planned (to the series' benefit, I think), but I finished it in one night. ^_^ And loads of thanks to all you wonderful readers, with special thanks to OtakuElf, azure_rosa, kirastorm, and all the guests. I love all of you, to one degree or another. Really, I do. I write as much for all of you as I do for myself. All your kind support has been priceless to me. :)_  
>  _By the way, if “I am yours” doesn't show up in some form in_ Inquisition, _even if it's not said by yet another sexy elf with a tortured past...let's just say I will be rather cross._  
> 


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